LX.

He wakes, and with him (ne're to sleepe) new feares: His sweat-bedewed bed hath now betraid him To a vast field of thornes; ten thousand speares All pointed in his heart seem'd to invade him: So mighty were th' amazing characters With which his feeling dreame had thus dismay'd him, He his owne fancy-framed foes defies: In rage, My armes, give me my armes, he cryes.